


Recipe

by Summerlightning



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: F/F, Kitchen Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Summerlightning/pseuds/Summerlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wants you to… to stimulate the batter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recipe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yamino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yamino/gifts).



Lifting your hand, you knock on the door smartly.  Three raps.  On the descent of the third you call, “I’m coming in!” and drop your fingers to twist them over the knob, pushing open the door and stepping into the house.  The worn, whitewashed boards of the porch creak beneath your feet as you leave them; the door’s hinges squeal, and by the mat just inside the jamb you toe off your shoes and, after a brief consideration, peel down your socks too.  You stuff them into the shoes.  Next you lift your head, smiling into the empty living room.  “I’m here,” you call again.  “Marceline?  Where are—”

“Bonni, hey!”  The vampire’s voice, disembodied but cheerful, drifts from somewhere upstairs.  It is followed closely by a distinct _clunk_ and the rustling, ratta-tat-tat sound of several other things falling.  “Nuts,” she mutters, and adds, “come up here a sec!”

You wander across the living room to the ladder that leads up through a hole in the ceiling.  You curl one hand over the lowermost rung, the metal cool under your palm.  “To your room?” you ask.

“Noooo,” she drawls, “to the _moon_.”  Abruptly the hole is full of her face, all leering smile and sharp, shining teeth.  The purple snake of her tongue darts out from between her lips and dances.  “Yeah, to my room.  C’mon.”  She reaches for you:  she’s got long arms, and before you know it she has a handful of your shirt twisted in her grip.  Pulling you up onto your tiptoes, she bumps her cheek into yours—kisses you, cold and wet and lopsided.  Then she’s gone, her laughter echoing through the house’s eaves.  You consider that a better invitation than her actual words, and you gracefully ascend the ladder after her.

When you stick your head up through the entrance to Marceline’s bedroom, you discover that her floor is covered with cookbooks.

“Why,” you say, “is your floor covered with cookbooks?”

“Found ’em,” Marceline answers promptly.  You look across the bedchamber.  The second glimpse you receive of your girlfriend today is the protrusion of her feet from her closet’s cavern.  Stepping over to her, you tweak one of her long, narrow toes and note smugly that the pink polish you painted on them a week ago is still there.  “I mean,” she continues, drifting up under your elbow, “I sorta vaguely knew I had them already, but I didn’t really think to _use_ them until I went to make lunch.  I am so flippin’ tired,” she confesses, “of smoothies.  But hey, that’s cool!  Because I don’t _have_ to eat one today!  I can”—she grunts, prizes something free, and rolls belly-up beside you with a thin glossy rectangle in her hands—“use a recipe in _here_ instead!”

Proudly she thrusts the book up at you, almost hitting you straight in the nose with it.  You lean back to read the title, but you don’t even get that far because there is a single giant frosted cupcake on the cover, bedazzled liberally with sprinkles, its top studded by a glistening crimson cherry.

A baking cookbook.

“A baking cookbook,” you say, and mentally you tack on _oh glob_.  You attempt with every fiber of your being to keep your voice normal.  Even so, the last word comes out a little breathy.  Your throat tightens—your palms itch as they begin to sweat and you tip your head, asking then in a tone that you hope sounds neutral, “You’re going to, uhm… bake something?”

“Dude.”  Marceline looks at you.  For one horrific, humiliated moment you think she’s picked up on it, that she _knows_ , because she’s actually pretty perceptive sometimes and if anyone can read you like an open book it’s her regardless.  But no:  she grins, a fang puckering her mouth’s crease, and says, “I’m not just gonna bake _something_.  I’m gonna bake a lumping _cake_.”

“That’s not a lunch food,” you observe, your mouth on autopilot.  Instantly you imagine Marceline in an apron.  In _only_ an apron.  Your mind’s eye also has her cradling a mixing bowl in her elbow, and as your fantasy coaxes her to stir whatever’s in that bowl, geez.  You can’t help it.  You shudder.

Marceline mistakes your expression and said shudder for revulsion.  Wheeling up to stand on her own two feet, she draws the book almost protectively back against her chest and insists, “You scorn it _now_ , but just wait.  Just _wait_ , Bonnibel.  I make excellent cakes.”

“When was the last time you made a cake?” you wonder.

Marceline ignores the question like a pro.  “Excellent cakes,” she repeats.  “Perfect cakes.  _Glorious_ cakes.  And I”—she waves the book like a talisman—“will prove it to you.”  With her free hand she jabs at the floor.  “Kitchen.  Stat.”

The vampire tucks in her knees and torpedoes down through the bedroom’s doorless hole. 

You close your eyes.  Suck in a calming breath:  hold it.  Count to ten.  “It’s just a cake,” you tell yourself, the words spilling out between your clenched teeth.  “Get a grip, Bubblegum.  It is _just a cake_.”

Once you feel as though you have gathered your composure, you make for the ladder again and climb back down into the lower part of Marceline’s house.

Schwabl is there to lick at your ankles.  You smile and lean to pet him, and probably you would pick him up and cuddle him too if you had time, but Marceline is making a variety of clattering and slamming noises in her kitchen.  You are curious—probably to a great fault—about those noises.  So you leave Schwabl and walk to the kitchen.  You have barely made it past the threshold of that room when Marceline turns to face you, and you are so lucky there is a countertop right next to you, _pretzels_ , because your girlfriend is _shrugging into an actual apron_ and your knees suddenly don’t want to perform the necessary function of keeping you upright anymore.

So much for your composure.

“Help me tie this, Bonni.”  Marceline turns sideways, notching her butt into the scoop of your hip.  If you’re honest with yourself—and as the princess of the Candy Kingdom, you can rarely afford to be anything _but_ honest with yourself—said butt and the countertop are the only two things keeping you upright.  Tickling your collar, Marceline’s hair smells of that citrus shampoo she likes so much; her arm brushes yours as she tugs at the apron’s strings.  You strongly, fiercely, _achingly_ want to fold her more firmly into you, to twine your hands in her hair and pull her down and nip at her mouth, to run your tongue over her—

“Babe?”

You jolt without meaning to.  Looking up, you find Marceline’s strawberry eyes fixed on your face.  Concern winks in them, bright and unabashed. 

“You okay?” she nudges.  “You’ve been all spacy and junk since you got here.”

You remind yourself for the second time in less than five minutes to _get a grip_.  Glob, she can’t know.  She can’t _know_.  She’ll tease you until time ends if she ever finds out you’ve got, like, a _thing_ for baking.  So you force yourself to smile, and you reassure her, “I’m fine, Marcy, I’m sorry.  I’m just really happy to see you.”  And just so she doesn’t think twice about what you’ve said, especially that second part—you _are_ happy to see her!—you cement your claim by taking in hand not the apron strings, no, but her face instead.  Rubbing your thumbs over the sharpness of her cheeks, you turn her head a little.  You bend forward.  You kiss her.

This kiss is not like the one she gave you a few minutes ago, sly and slapdash.  This kiss is _proper_.  Her mouth meets yours fully, the way it should, and she sighs into you when you trace your tongue’s tip over the swell of her lip.  You feel her smile before she opens beneath you and your teeth click, flat on fangs, and you slide one hand back into her hair to cup her head closer.  In response she drops the apron strings, filling her fingers next with your hips.  She squeezes:  you arch.  You bite her lip and she hisses, pushing you back into the countertop, and you start to think that maybe she’ll take care of you this way, that you won’t have to _worry_ about being embarrassed by a cake, when a timer dings.

She grins into your cheek—huffs reluctantly but pulls away nevertheless, drumming her thumb against the base of your ribs.  “Oven’s ready and I haven’t even mixed the batter yet, geez.  C’mon.”  After a moment of fumbling, she rediscovers the apron strings and holds them up hopefully.  Wiggles her eyebrows.  “Tie me up?”  She offers too, “A bow will be fine, Princess.”

“Oh ha _ha_ ,” you reply.  “Turn around, then.”  And you are grateful when she does.  At least then she can’t see how badly your hands are trembling.  You seize the strings, pull them taut, knot them loosely.  Because you’re a glutton for punishment, apparently, you reach around and smooth the apron’s coarse cloth flat over her belly.  “There,” you manage.  “Consider yourself officially shielded from all manner of kitchen devilry.”

Marceline rolls her head back against your shoulder.  She smirks at you:  grazes her fangs over your jaw right where she knows you like it.  “Preesh,” she purrs, and continues as she snaps upright and moves to the opposing counter, “grab the eggs from the fridge, wouldja?”

“Of course.”  _It is just a cake.  It is just a cake.  It is just a cake_.  You repeat this to yourself silently and open the mentioned fridge.  “How many?”

“Uuuh.”  From the corner of your eye you see Marceline lean over to consult her cookbook, her feet hovering a handspan above the floor.  “Two.  No—three,” she decides.  “Snag the buttermilk while you’re in there.”

Marceline’s refrigerator is a riot of pink and red foods:  sausages, jellies, ham, cherries, fish fillets, half a smiling watermelon with dark seeds for teeth.  The eggs are stark in their basket—the small carton of buttermilk seems almost to glow amongst its warm-colored neighbors.  You pluck up both and ask, “Anything else?”

“Nope.  Got all the rest right here.”  And indeed, you notice now as you turn around that the countertop is already scattered with a variety of ingredients and tools.  Baking soda.  Cocoa powder.  A dark little potion-esque bottle of vanilla extract.  Measuring cup.  A _sugar scoop_.

You clutch the eggs so tightly in your hand that you crack one.  The sunflower liquid inside squirts in a thin trickle down your wrist.

“Whoa!”  Marceline grins and grabs—oh you are in _trouble_ —a bowl from the sprawl of cooking instruments.  “In here!” she urges.  “Not on the floor!”

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize.  You maneuver your arm over the bowl and crack the rest of the eggs into it, adding a few bits of shell because hey, you are _not_ the most coordinated piece of royalty right now.  “Nuts!” you blaspheme, horrified.  “Marceline, I am _so_ sorry, I am _ruining_ your cake—”

“Oh please,” sniffs your girlfriend dismissively.  “A little whirl with the mixer and you won’t even be able to tell those are in there.”

“Mixer?” you squeak.  You _squeak_.  Worse-than-a-rubber-duck squeak.  Marceline’s eyebrows jot up her forehead.

“Bonni,” she murmurs, ginger, “are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

“Fine,” you lie.  “I’m fine.  Perhaps coming down with a bit of a cold, oh my”—in an attempt to convince her of this possibility, you rub at your throat and clear it—“but otherwise fine, yes, absolutely!”  Before she can interject, you toss the remnant shells in the garbage and query, “What next?  Flour?  Butter?”

“Flour, yeah,” she says.  She still sounds dubious and she’s looking at you too, assessing you, and she is so very, very good at that, yes, she always has been, that you find yourself desperate to distract her.

You blurt, “I’ve never made a cake before.”  Your mind screams, _Because dessert-making is essentially sex to my people, Marceline, did you know that?  Cookbooks are pornography!  They are incredibly distasteful but I keep one under my mattress at home and I have to bite my pillow when I look at it, and I have had fantasies of licking frosting off your nipples and I—_

“Wait, seriously?”  Marceline’s incredulous reply interrupts your panicked thought.  Her eyes widen—her mouth gapes and then she beams, thrusting the bowl into your egg-slimed hand.  It slips.  You nearly drop it.  “If you’ve never made a cake, wow, this is so not my show.”

“N-not your show?”

“Huh-uh!”  The bag of flour expels a plume of white dust as the vampire drifts backward a pace and yanks it off the counter.  You muffle a groan watching Marceline dip the measuring cup into it.  She dumps a couple heaps of the stuff into the bowl you’re holding now.  “You’ve gotta”—next comes the sugar—“experience the _magic_ , Bonni.”  Taking the buttermilk carton from your nerveless fingers, she soaks the mixture liberally with its contents.  “It’s all satisfying and stuff, right?  Making a cake, I mean.  You get this huge sense of, I dunno, _accomplishment_.  When you’re done.  Plus it tastes good.”

“Tastes good,” you echo.  The bowl slides in your hands.

Marceline is still adding things to the mixture.  The extract.  Cocoa powder.  A sprinkling of salt.  Baking soda.  When she is finished, she wipes her hands on her jeans, rifles around through her silverware drawer, and comes up with a wooden spoon.  She drives that spoon firmly into the bowl.

“Okay,” she decides.  She gives you another of her sharp, searing smiles.  “There.  Start stirring.”

She wants you to… to _stimulate_ the batter.

Translation:  she wants you to get off in the middle of her kitchen.  And she wants to watch.

You have pictured yourself doing this more times than you will ever admit to anyone.  Heat prickles in your belly, the pleasant sort:  your heart is throbbing, your chest a burning coil of _please yes PLEASE_.  A muscle in your thigh twitches.  You are sweating so profusely that your shirt has begun to stick in the channel between your shoulders.

And Marceline is smiling at you.

Your restraint—not that you really had any to begin with—crumbles like a stale biscotti. 

You stir.

Instantly you discover that it’s not exactly easy to move the spoon through the thick, clumpy batter.  Biting your lip, you put your elbow into the effort.  You manage to slosh some of the stuff out of the bowl and onto the floor before Marceline drifts around behind you.  She lands:  you hear the soft shush of her feet against the tile.  In your ear there is a muffled sound—a chuckle or a raspberry, you can’t tell which—and then her arms slide up around yours.  Tucking her face into your temple, she says, “Nah, Bonni, not like that.  Like this.”

Her hand curls over your knuckles.  With the heel of it she pushes your fingers and the spoon through the batter, and after the first few clumsy strokes you get the rhythm.  Gray on pink, your elbows notch.  She kisses the tip of your ear and acknowledges, “Yeah.  There you go.  Harder.”  You can feel her breasts against your back.

Together you churn the batter until it’s as smooth as you can make it.  You are a wreck by the end of it, scarcely able to hold the bowl or grip the spoon, your jeans too tight and your mouth so dry it hurts to swallow.  You do at least manage to hold a conversation with Marceline, though.  As it happens, she’s maimed two dudes over the past week—“They were on my turf and they didn’t wanna leave,” the queen explains, “so I gave them some incentive, y’know?”—and written part of a new song about zombies or werewolves or something.  You don’t really hear that part.

Dropping the bowl on the counter, she floats away from you a bit and reaches for the mixer.  She lifts it, flips the switch:  the beaters flash silver in the open air and pressure pools low at the crux of you, molten, insistent.  You have never in your life wanted so badly to rip off someone else’s clothes.  Added bonus:  your clothes too.

“You wanna?” she asks you, offering over the mixer.  “It’s the last step.”

“You do it,” you politely decline.  If you touch that thing, glob, you will embarrass yourself and you know it and you are _determined_ to get out of this with some small shred of your dignity intact.  “Show me how?  I don’t want to… make a mess.”

_Rrrrm-rrrm_!  She flips the mixer’s switch on and off again in quick succession, her smirk a serrated gash that is just a _little_ soft for you because you know where to look.  “Watch the master,” she suggests.  She plunges the beaters into the bowl.  Hits the mixer’s ON button.

Chocolate batter explodes across the kitchen.

“YEECH!” Marceline shrieks.  She takes most of the splatter because she’s so close to the counter, but brown glittering ribbons make it past her hair and confetti across her cabinets, her ceiling, her floor.  A gooey, syrupy strand merrily smacks you in the face.  Your girlfriend loses her grip on the mixer.  The weight of it upends the bowl, and those two things go skittering sideways down the countertop as though possessed, spewing wet confection.

Marceline scrabbles after the mixer and you do too, but it’s too slippery to grab.  You are the one who has the foresight to yank out its cord instead.  As the beaters die and set about drizzling fudge-colored gloop, the bowl, empty now, clatters to the floor.

The other monarch turns slowly midair to look at you. 

“Okay,” she admits.  “Okay, _fine_.  Maybe it’s been a little while since I made a cake.  A couple decades.  …ish.  But I—”

You don’t listen to the rest.  You are too busy devoted to watching a trickle of chocolate curl down her cheek.  It drips off her jaw, _plip_ , and hits her shirt, where it makes a tiny splotch on her breast.  In your ears the roar of your pulse is deafening.

That last shred of dignity you were attempting to preserve?  Yeah.  Yeah, you decide you don’t care about that anymore.

You ever so calmly step forward and reach to close your arms about Marceline’s waist.

“Aw Bonni, don’t,” she protests.  “I’m covered in this nast and—”

You hear her but you are still not listening.  Pulling her weightless form aloft such that her chest is level with your face, you drag your fingers up her spine.  You press her into you and you close your mouth over that dark spot on her shirt, looking up at her through your lashes.  Grating your teeth across that spot forces her mouth open in an equally dark, surprised _O_ , and her thighs shiver about your ribs.

“Bonnibel,” she observes hoarsely.  “What the _plum_ are you doing?”

It is very obvious what you are doing, you think.  But because she seems confused, you drop your free hand to her shirt’s hem.  Raking up said shirt, you skate your fingers over the swell of cool skin just above where her belt presses into her belly.  And then you palm that belt’s buckle, flicking aside the latch with your thumb.

“Oh my glob,” realizes your girlfriend.  Delight colors her tone; her eyes burn and wicker like the flames of candles.  “Oh my _glob_ , no way.  No _freaking_ way!  Baking a _cake_ gets you hot?”

You don’t bother to tell her it could be crepes, cupcakes—even cookies.  “Don’t laugh at me,” you plead into her shirt, but by now you _really_ don’t care if she laughs so long as you get her pants off.  Fumbling at the belt, you nip at her breast’s peak through fabric that’s flavored of chocolate, of roughness, of Marceline.

“Oh my glob,” she hisses again.  This time, though, it’s more of a croon and there’s a quiver in her voice.  She curls her free hand in your hair, twisting her fingers under your tiara.  When you bite gently at your prize, oh, she squeezes her eyes shut—rolls her hips into you.  You walk her back across the kitchen until her shoulders meet the wall.

The belt slithers free of its loops, heavy in your grasp.  You drop it.  _Ting_ chimes the chatter of the buckle on the tile.  Nudging it aside with your foot, you lean in and pin Marceline, holding her in place with your collar so you may use your hands to peel up her shirt and shimmy down her zipper respectively.

How it got there you cannot even begin to calculate without some serious graphing charts, but chocolate is smeared on her torso in a descending comma.  Much as she whines and bucks beneath you, you drop your head and take your time licking it away, nibbling its edges, relishing the scrape of skin and sugar.  All the while you work at her jeans, leaning away from her to finally drag them—and her undergarments—away.  They land in a pile next to the belt.

“Right,” she breathes above you.  “Baking.  _Right_.”  She’s laughing.  The sound swells under your cheek; her belly jumps with it, brushing your tongue, your teeth, and she is still laughing when you drag her knee over your shoulder and lower your smile to taste her.


End file.
